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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26519029">Taking a Shine To Him</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vulgarweed/pseuds/Vulgarweed'>Vulgarweed</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock Holmes &amp; Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Boot Worship, Bootblacking, Light Angst, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, acts of service, light comeplay</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 04:07:50</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,986</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26519029</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vulgarweed/pseuds/Vulgarweed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A battered old pair of riding boots, lovingly restored to their former glory by Holmes' hard dedicated labour and knowledge of chemistry. A somewhat battered, not terribly old army doctor brought to glory by such focused, intimate attention.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Sherlock Holmes/John Watson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>93</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Taking a Shine To Him</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Huge thanks to my betas <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iwantthatcoat">iwantthatcoat</a> and <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/breathedout/pseuds/breathedout">breathedout!</a></p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>There are many, many things I have always enjoyed about my flatmate, Watson. My companion, my conductor of light. He is a man of the people, and therefore his writing always appeals to the worst populist impulses. But I do occasionally enjoy the way he endears our adventures to the hoi polloi. Through his writings, I've met more of them than I ever thought would have come through our door. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And, I sometimes think, he imagines I hold myself as superior to him. My family are....country squires. My brother is highly-placed within the government.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It is true my Watson is of different stock. I believe that he sought to prove himself in the Army - and even though no one could doubt he served with great courage and honour, he had the misfortune to be wounded, and so his military career did not advance. When he returned to London, he felt defeated. He felt grateful to meet me - as if I were any sort of prize. We were misfits together, and I had always assumed that he understood this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I miscalculated.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yes, even I have blind spots.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It all came to a head over a pair of riding boots. Magnificent leather they had been in their heyday - which was long past. I could see Watson's longing eye on them at the estate sale, so I bought them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I was not sure if he wanted to wear them himself, or wanted to see them on me. We had not yet reached the point in our relationship where we could discuss such matters openly. Fate decided this for us: they fit him well, and me much less.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was self-conscious, I think, about the state of his leg. His memories are . . . compromised. He was shot more than once, I am certain (and now having seen his scars, doubly so), and spent so much time in field hospital in a fever dream, often in the twilight state between life and death. He cannot even say for certain where his wounds were caused by bullets and where by nightmare and horror. Whatever the cause, sometimes his leg troubles him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>For me, a walking stick is a convenience, an affectation, and a gentleman's weapon, particularly with its blade inside. For him, it serves as both a need and a comfort. And at times I believe he feels unmanned by the limp that comes and goes with the damp and the cold  . . . and with the onset of unwanted memory.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I see nothing remotely deficient about him, of course. But mine is not the opinion that matters most.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yet perhaps my methods of persuasion might not be useless entirely. Recently, I have introduced him to some very clear means of appreciation of his physical prowess.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh no, of course no word of this is in his little stories. We do live in a dangerous age. But once I ascertained that, beneath his rather constant and tedious overappreciation of the allegedly fairer sex, there did indeed run a Uranian vein, I was able to at last get him to see that what lay between us was sufficient to be worth exploration. We made sure the risks were slight and the rewards were great.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yet there was a diffidence to our couplings - we came at each other as if for the first time every time. We had not yet managed to transfer expression of our physical passion to a conversation about our desires, and for all that we are both men of the world, we sometimes fumbled like nervous schoolboys. I, of course, accept most of the blame for this, for I should be able to articulate myself better. Yet something about our bodies touching sapped my faculties to speak. I was left gasping and mute.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>We could have been content, for the pleasure that passed between us, and the warmth and fondness that lingered, were surely rewarding in their own right. Yet, there is something in both him and myself that is ever driven to press forward. For my part, I had some . . . specialised and sophisticated tastes in that regard, and I suspected that he might as well.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Letting those magnificent boots stay in their scuffed and neglected state, well, it was quickly becoming symbolic of a more resonant fear. Sooner or later, it would have to be breached, and I could not let that omission stand for very much longer. I started to make my plan.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Did I mention that I am clever? There was no better way to entice Watson to my will than to offer him a chance to see my cleverness in action; if sometimes the plot was a little more convoluted than strictly required - the key information withheld much longer than necessary - well, it was all the more effective, and I do not deny I basked often in his delight.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My cover story for this elaborate ruse was that we were going to be investigating a surprising series of murders, all loosely tied to a horse-breeding operation. My real quarry here of course, was Watson himself, who had some skill with the horses - at least from a bettor’s perspective. I warned him that we must infiltrate a trainers' circle, and I would need him to present himself as a skilled rider (as indeed, I knew first-hand that he was -  though not necessarily of horses). I worked hard on his disguise. He would need to be dapper and smartly-dressed, for he was to appear a bit of a toff whose regalia was of a higher class than his actual skill. Therefore, he would have to have a good quality kit, and it would need to be well-tricked-out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I know he loved the stories I often told of my boltholes, and that he was desperate with curiosity to catch a glimpse of one. I took him to an old storehouse, which was once a shipping center and now, in its debauched state, a place where men who ply the bootblack trade go to gather wares.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With keen interest, he watched the young boys from poverty and the old men from injury collect what they needed to make their meagre living. Yet for some, it is more of a calling. I of course knew all the oils and tallow and cheap paint they used. I did not yet let Watson know I had my own formula.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Have you done this for your living, Holmes?" he asked. He sounded nearly as scandalised as if he was asking if I had done what we do in the privacy of our bedroom for pay. (Which, I must admit, I have done - not for pay strictly, I've never needed it - but for information, certainly).</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Shhhh," I said. "Give me just a little time."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He trusted me, of course. He watched and followed as I led him to a staircase in the back, and I bade him follow me. Once we had reached that empty room, lit only by the dimming sunset light, he saw what I wished to show him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I had a standard stand, with chair and kneeling platform. I would, on occasion, when I went to work, haul the heavy chair out by means of a hired mule-cart. I paid the drivers well, they were all my willing informants. I dressed in raw workman's gear when I set out to present myself as a bootblacker - this is the sort of profession that men of means tend to disregard.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I would be completely content to ply my skills on Watson's boots in public, were we normal men. But I needed him to know that part of my need to get him ready for this case was in fact a ruse to show him that there are many different ways that I love to play.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In this private room, I had my own set up for proper leather polishing. My formula includes the dippen of the past century, and also some chemistry of my own research, which I believe traces back to the Romans and the Celts of Old Britain.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Leather is extremely valuable, if well-tanned, and deserves great attention.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The dippen I know involves complex chemistry. I have worked at that, and I very much have my own opinions about the best formula of our ancestors. I have built up a number of jars of the best results of my work. If someone wanted to market it, I'd have a formula at the ready. I have often considered it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I helped Watson into the chair. His movements weren’t smooth, and he tipped a bit as a knee quivered. His face frowned at himself, briefly - I hated that cloud that passed across his eyes, that low self-regard. I wanted to help him feel better. He sat, pushing out his favoured stiff leg a little further than the other. No matter to me. The boots on both were the same.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Very excellent they were, old and well-made, just needing a little elbow grease to restore their peak of glory.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I knelt before Watson, I took out my pots and brushes, and prepared to get to work.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looked down at me, a question upon his face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I looked back up at him, preparing his boots with the first stage, the rags soaked in white oil.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"The best thing about being a bootblack," I said, "is that you are invisible. You can wait on all sorts of powerful men, and they will talk about their business freely, because they don't realise you have ears to hear and a brain to remember."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"But, Holmes," he said. "Of course I know you, and who you are. You don't have to put on that disguise with me."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I chuckled. "It's no disguise with you, Watson. Your boots really do need work. And you need to trust that I know what I'm about."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He let his head fall back against the headrest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But most importantly, he did not take his feet away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I began with the first layer of work, mineral oil to help heal the cracks in the old leather. I already loved these boots so much. I think it likely that they were older than both of us.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just a slow massage of the heaviest grease first. The mineral oil, and then the tallow. The latter had grown hard and solid in the London chill - I lit a match for a small fire to warm and soften it. And then, out of sheer perversity, I lit a cigar for Watson.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I sucked on it, rather wantonly, and I didn't care that it might be slightly wet with my saliva when I passed it up to him. I had already noted that he enjoyed watching my lips wrapped around it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He accepted it, and took a deft puff.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Happily, he kept it in his hand, drawing on it occasionally while he watched me work.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Having already done the first mineral oil wash - at least, with a short pass- I realised it would need more work, and so I pushed a second wash. Starting at the feet, and working all the way up - ankles, shins, calves. The rubbing at this stage was rather intense. I started to become warm and had to shrug off my jacket. In shirt and braces, I worked, massaging the oil into the leather nearly all the way up to Watson's knees.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the process of this work, of course I came close up between his legs. I smiled up at him, for just a moment - very daring, I would never have done so in my undercover work.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His face was so very open and hungry. I secured that memory away for future reference. If I ever had a lonely night soon, it would sustain me through - he was so elegantly heated.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I could not dwell on it. I took out the second pot, the buffer, the duggin. This required a stiff hogshair brush.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>First, I brushed the boots hard, driving the moisturizing oil deep into the grain of the leather. From toe to heel, from sole to knee, once again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Watson was shivering in his chair, wriggling a little, a sign of discomfort.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a quick glance, I ascertained that he was uncomfortable, yes, but definitely not bored. The flies of his trousers flared out with the strong interest of his body. I was impressed that said trousers were well-made enough to contain a weapon that I knew was impressive when fully loaded. And I was also pleased that it had managed to rise so high, for my efforts had come nowhere near it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I still had much work remaining upon his boots. I was only at stage two.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Next came the tallow that I had warmed with the little fire. It was well-done, a texture rather like half-warmed butter. Some bootblackers insist upon using gloves for this phase, and normally I do too. But for my Watson, I decided against it. Gloves are impairing, they stand between the sense of touch and the objects they work upon. The tallow was warm, but not hot enough to hurt me, so I opted to use my bare hands.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gathering up a deep glop with my fingertips, I worked it into the leather of my Watson's toes. Massaging it in. Pushing around to the sides of his feet, and the arch, and the instep, and the heels. Already I could see that his boots were beginning to look much, much better. Tender loving care is so very important.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My own legs were beginning to ache. The kneeling position for this work does tend to wear upon one, after a while.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I admit, I gave out a little groan.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Holmes, are you all right?" I heard from him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I must admit, I rather resented that question, for all that I knew that it came from a place of care. It interrupted my perfect state of work. I do not like to be interrupted when I am deep within my mind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I restrained myself from lashing out in annoyance.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Fine, my dear. I've just been in one position too long. You know I thrive on variety."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I heard his soft chuckle, and I knew I was absolved.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>(I did take the opportunity to stand up and stretch briefly. When posing as a professional, I do not get this chance. It also conveyed more opportunities to watch my Watson, and to let him look at me. My legs were not the only parts of me that were genuinely stiff, and I was glad to know that he saw that.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>We glanced at one another in a deeply-knowing, hungry way. He was desperate for satisfaction, as was I.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>However, I was unsatisfied, seeing that his boots were unfinished.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I think you've been sitting too long, Watson. Please do stand up and stretch. But don't walk. I need to keep your boots where they are. I've done good work, but there is still a long way to go."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He acknowledged me - barely - and did as I suggested.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was so very lovely as I backed away to give him room to move. He hoisted himself upward, with his strong arms on the chair - no hint of hesitation - and stretched to his full height. Less than mine, but powerful.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I think he knew I was watching. How could it be otherwise?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I was content to watch his muscles work - and to accept the glances he sent to me - until he at last decided he was ready to sit back down.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For this phase, I did need gloves, for I did not wish my hands to be stained (I suspected - nay, hoped - they would be used soon, and besides that, I would have to change my own disguise soon). My gloves were very soft, well-used and tanned kid leather. Black, as the polish would be. As I did my work on Watson's boots, the polish would also nourish them. I appreciated the metaphor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The first strokes of the blacking involved a slathering tool. I was wild and indiscriminate. The first stage of this is a profligate painting, and yet I was still very attentive to detail, making sure to fill in all the tiny cracks of age and also work the black colour into the worn stitching.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I looked up to Watson as I spread the dark colour all the way up, nearly to his knees. He was trembling.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I know you are enjoying this more intensely than most - though not all - of my clients," I said quietly, with a smile. "I assure you, this room is private. If you would like some relief of tension...or some self-enjoyment...it will be completely safe."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For the first time in a long while, he spoke. "I am...very much enjoying watching you work."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"That has been obvious to me for some time," I said. I did not cease my movements with my gloved hands on his leather-covered shins and calves.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The dark dye must be worked in with slow, steady, circular motions on every inch of the surface of the boot. First with gloved hands, and then with a brush. There is no shortcut permissible at this stage. With steady focus did I rub the mixture in - over his toes to start, the sides of his feet, around behind the heel. First right, then left. Upward sweeping motions from the sides of the foot to the ankle. Up the front of his foot to his shin. I took the liberty of asking him to lift his feet to grant me easier access to the Achilles stretch and the calf; were we not so intimately acquainted, I would consider it an admission of inferior skill to request such, but because we were so intimately acquainted, I thought it not impossible that he'd enjoy it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I meant what I said, you know," I said, peering up at him. "If you wish to make yourself more comfortable, in whatever way, I have no objection."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was magnificent. I knew that high, stiff chair was not comfortable. I knew that his injuries made him even less so than another man, and I knew he was stoic. But we exchanged a glance, he and I, and at last he fully understood. With my hands on the leather covering his upper feet, I felt the shivers run through him. I held still as he gave a little roll of his hips. That roll continued past plausible deniability. I flicked my tongue over my lips and made sure that he had seen that before I finished slicking the black colouring all the way up his lower legs and pausing just short of his knees. I made sure to work the dye in, fully, all the way around, enjoying the intimate contact with his body and the strong, pungent scent of the dibben - heavy black leather, animalistic but refined; chemical and perfumed. If I did my work well - and I knew that I would - the boots would be beautifully prepared to look sharp, weather the elements, and protect my man's feet and legs in style.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A change of scent in the air told me my goal was achieved before I even deigned to look up. A rustle of cloth confirmed it. I knew that with a glance I would see that Watson's magnificent cock had been freed to the air.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was not fully erect, but distinctly pink. He took it in his hand, as if trying to hide it. I smiled, and let him see me smiling.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Is this part of the procedure, Holmes?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Well, I won't polish it with the blacking, but if it wants some grease and beeswax, I would never dare to deny it. It's very dear to me, after all."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I think later it may want just a simple spit treatment."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I will be glad to oblige, but for now, please do not interrupt my work. Sit still - and look ... see what I've achieved!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His boots were in magnificent shape, nearly completed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I kept his cock in my vision while I worked my way back down to the ankle. There were still a few dull spots. That was unacceptable to me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And I have to say, that it was so very delightful to keep my hands on Watson's legs for so long, while he kept still. The kneeling was problematic after long periods but he was so lovely, and so patient. I had not failed to notice that he watched my every movement, as I watched his. Oh to have been on the ground in Afghanistan with him, how exciting that might have been.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I stroked as he stroked, and I watched him stroking. I was at a height of bliss.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And so that meant I needed to calm myself. I had still not finished the final stage of polish, with my own particular formula, based in beeswax and black dye.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Holmes?" he asked, with a little hint of worry or annoyance, when he saw I'd removed my gaze from his cocked weapon.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You know I am a perfectionist, my dear," I snapped. "Carry on as you like, but my work here is not yet done."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What shall I do then?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Enjoy yourself, as long as you stay still."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I regretted those words, as I could tell, it seemed to dampen his enthusiasm. If I didn't know my Watson better, I thought he might almost feel shamed.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He tried his absolute best to stay still, and nearly managed it but for a certain telltale motion of his hand that set a slight motion to his whole body. Above me, I could see the shadow of his arm moving, slowly, attempting to be discreet as he began to relieve his strain. I heard a little moan. And then he went still. I felt the burning pressure of his gaze, on the top of my head and on my hands and on my back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>God bless him, he was focused on me utterly. He watched the last of the dullness wiped away, and his boots turning shiny and supple, as if new - better than new, for they had the softness and give of long wear, and the longer he kept them on, the more they molded to the strong and lovely shape of his feet, the muscular swell of his calves.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh, to see him in the desert sun in his regimental gear. What a magnificent figure he must have cut. I wished to restore some of that grandeur - not to me, for I had no need of it - but to him, so he could see himself as a vision of power and desire. To catch a glimpse of himself through my eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He held his cock in his hand, and his position became nearly at attention, or at least at parade rest, while I finished the last touches of his boots. All this time, he had been so responsive to my every move. Every detail of my work upon him. Though he can, at times, miss many important details, he had not missed a trick whilst watching me, I sensed. Though his memory is not as precise as mine, I suspected it would only take once or twice more of this treatment before he could recreate the procedure himself - for it was important enough to him that he remember, and I had left a lasting impression.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I rewarded him with a little smile. I pressed a kiss to his left thigh through his wool trousers. "I am nearly done, and then you may reward me with . . . a tip."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He laughed as if startled that I could make such a crude innuendo in this moment. Really, Watson, it was an obvious one.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I took a soft chamois cloth, and began the work of driving in the polish and buffering the finish. And if my movements with this cloth - persistent and rigourous, repetitive and firm and fast, building up a little bit of a prick of sweat - was suggestive of similar rhythms for other purposes, well, that is simply the nature of how it is done. Oh, how he squirmed. How admirable was his patience. A gasp, a soft cry, barely vocalised - he could not contain himself, but how he tried.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I had nearly spent myself when I saw how radiant he looked in these boots. Oh, he could step on me wearing them and I would bless him for it. That may be a matter to discuss, later on.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You've done a wonderful job," he said, breathless.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Thank you," I said. "Thank you for allowing me. Thank you for your patience."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I admired my handiwork for a long time - for now I had reached the climax of the performance, and I had no desire to rush it through. I examined every inch of him from toe to knee and back again, making sure I had not missed a single scuff. Perfection.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Satisfied with my own work, I picked up the last chamois cloth - the newest and softest one, absolutely pristine. I tucked it into my teeth and I kneeled up, feeling my spine creaking. Watson’s composure broke - a soft, high sound, almost a whimper. I placed one hand on each of Watson's knees and nudged his legs apart, to give me enough room to lean in between them, the better to address my unfinished business, and to claim my reward.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"As you say," I said, nudging his hand aside. "</span>
  <em>
    <span>This</span>
  </em>
  <span> asks for a more natural treatment. Needs no more than what mother nature has given us, don't you agree?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Certainly," he said, shivering.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With one last scanning glance around the room to make sure all my precautions still held - as much for his reassurance as mine - I let my expression look content for our safety. And I took the cloth in my hand, resting it on Watson's trembling but hale and hearty left thigh. I leaned in, I took his magnificent member first in my hand and then in my mouth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh, how I relished that first moan of his, the first sharp inhale as I closed around him and sucked. He sounded forever startled at how good it felt, and I savoured his pleasure as if it were my own - indeed, my own member was sharply hard in my trousers and could use some adjustments. That would have to wait. First I must focus on my Watson.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I sucked him slow and deep - oh, he might like the pace to quicken, but I set my own rhythm and I would be the one to decide when it was time to build up to the speed that would sweep him to glory.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He had been reluctant at first to put his hand on my head when I did this, worried that I might take this as unwanted pressure and commentary. By now, I had managed to convince him that I liked it, that he was welcome to pull my hair and put me where he wanted me. I felt his grasp now, sure and hard, short fingernails scratching my scalp. “Fuck,” he breathed, and I was inspired to take him deeper.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For all my efforts to draw out his sweet torment, I knew he wouldn't last long - he had been hard and musky since the fourth or fifth sweep of my brush, in the second phase of the bootwork. Still, there were many sweet minutes of my playing with him - the darts of my tongue, the sweet sting in my eyes when the fat and full head of him in my throat tickled the gag reflex I suppressed with breathwork. His shiver and jolt when the soft cloth in my hand tickled the softer skin of his bollocks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I let him have his crisis - when I felt him buck and tighten, when his breaths grew sharp and laboured, I took him to the edge and let my mouth pull him over, with my hand ready to bring to bear. For when we do this in our rooms at Baker Street, I like to swallow his emission. I like to take it deep within me, as a form of sustenance. I like to avoid having a mess to clean. But now I had a different plan - I caught every drop, every thick white stripe, into the folds of the polish cloth. And then I was ready to take my turn - oh, so ready, for nothing aroused me more than the sounds and scents and feel of him losing control.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Watch me," I said, when he had barely recovered. He was panting, glazed-eyed, smiling incredulously.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I leaned back then and opened my own trousers. My cockstand sprang out immediately like a freed prisoner. Before Watson's ravenous gaze, I took myself in hand. Locking eyes with him, I frigged myself wantonly. I thought of every filthy, potentially incriminating thing we had done, and of things I hoped we might do. I locked in the scent of sweat and leather and beeswax and how he wore his manly body like a finely-made uniform with proud scars of battle. I thought of my willing service and the way it shivered my skin and filled my heart.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I was rather frenzied, I admit, and he was so very rapt to watch me - I let him see that I have an animal within, and it is not always tame.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I had his name on my lips when I spent, copiously, into the polish cloth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a smile - shaking slightly, still hanging impishly out of my trousers, I leaned forward.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"For luck," I said, as I worked our intermingled spunk into the leather of his boots. It was nourishing in its way - it would be absorbed into the pores of the leather, and give a patina to the shine, though invisible. No one would know it was there but he and I, and when he wore them forever more, he would wear us together - a salacious reminder of our games.</span>
</p><p><br/>
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  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>If you want to know more about bootblacking - both about traditional leather care and polish AND the bootblacking tradition and practice in the BDSM/Leather community - the amazingly in-depth <a href="http://bootblack.wikidot.com/">Bootblack Wiki</a> is your one-stop shop.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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